


Fits and Starts

by almostjulie



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-12
Updated: 2016-04-12
Packaged: 2018-06-01 22:50:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6539701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/almostjulie/pseuds/almostjulie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>House is sent home after his infarction. He is, as one might expect, not in the best of moods. Three times Wilson came to visit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fits and Starts

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted to LJ in 2007, lightly edited.

The first time Wilson came to visit was Tuesday afternoon, four days after House was discharged from the hospital. He didn't stay long.

He'd stood hesitantly in the bedroom doorway and didn't seem to know what to say. House felt uncomfortable and exposed at Wilson seeing him like this; in a hospital bed was barely tolerable, but revealing such weakness in his own home was humiliating. 

Wilson smelled like the hospital, like antiseptic and latex glove powder. The scents reminded House both that he was damaged and that the world was going on without him while he wasted away in bed. 

"You look thrilled to be here. Did Stacy put you up to this?" 

Wilson fidgeted but didn't try to come any closer. House was glad. "She's worried about you. We both are."

"I don't want your pity."

"That should work out well, then, because I don't have any to give. You're not going to get better lying in bed, House. You should try some of the therapy Mitchell went over with you." 

Wilson took a few steps forward; his body language spoke of obligation rather than willingness to actually spend time with his new and unimproved friend. House threw up his defenses, sparing him and Wilson from a pointless night. "Being lectured to is such an ideal way to spend my evening. Thanks for stopping by. You can leave now." 

House felt vindicated when Wilson left without protest. 

***

The next time Wilson came to visit was a Saturday. On Stacy's insistence that she needed to change the sheets, House had gotten out of bed and crutched his way into the living room. He gave Stacy a hard time about making him move (and as his leg felt like it was on fire, he'd probably end up sleeping out here tonight. The long trip back to bed seemed daunting). It was nice, however, to see something other than the bedroom and the bathroom. He'd even dressed up for his move – changed out his pajama bottoms for a clean t-shirt and old lacrosse shorts that he'd never wear for anything remotely athletic ever again. 

Stacy answered the door when Wilson knocked. The two of them exchanged brief, stilted pleasantries before she made her escape. 

"TV is mind-numbingly stupid," House said from where he was sprawled out on the couch.

"I think that's part of the appeal." Wilson walked around the couch. "The problem is you're in the no-man's land of Saturday afternoon... just too late for Saturday morning cartoons, way too early for soft-core porn."

"Sounds like you've given this a fair amount of thought. I feel honored to be in the presence of such a television connoisseur. Shouldn't you be devoting your free time to making dying kids laugh, though, instead of memorizing programming grids?"

He turned the TV off as Wilson sat in front of him on the edge of the coffee table. He smelled like spring -- pollen and fresh cut grass -- and faintly of sweat; he'd probably gone for a run before coming over. House swallowed down his jealousy. He'd always been a better athlete than Wilson. Now that was all in the past. 

They managed to be civil for nearly a half hour as Wilson filled him in on all the hospital gossip. Wilson had to ruin it, though, by being concerned. 

"How's it healing?" Wilson asked, and reached for the hem of his shorts, pushing the material up his leg. 

House quickly grabbed his hand to stop him -- hard enough that he hoped it hurt. 

Wilson, insistent, didn't pull his hand away. "I don't know if you're aware of this, but I am a doctor." 

"There's a big chunk of my leg missing. Looking at it won't change anything."

They stared at each other, not backing down. But neither of them was great with silences. At this point, however, it was inevitable that speaking would only make things worse. 

"She made the right choice. You wouldn't be here if she hadn't--"

"You don't know that," House cut him off. 

"I would have made the same one."

"Get out."

Wilson probably expected that response. He stood and headed for the door. As angry as House was at that moment, part of him didn't want Wilson to leave; if nothing else, he broke the monotony. Anger trumped everything else, though. So when he saw Wilson hesitate at the door out of the corner of his eye, he grabbed the remote and turned the TV on and the volume way up. 

House threw the remote across the room after Wilson left. 

***

Stacy was crying; not the loud, wracking sobs he now routinely woke up to (crying in the living room, the kitchen, out on the front porch, anywhere she thought he couldn't hear). Her grief now was more controlled, she was crying for an audience: Wilson, come for his obligatory weekly visit. House couldn't make out his words, but his voice was low, calm, and soothing -- the same voice he used to consol the families of his dying patients. If Wilson tried that voice with him, he'd kick him out. 

House heard the jangle of keys and the front door closing. Wilson came in and sat at the foot of his bed. He carried a faint whiff of Stacy's perfume with him, and House latched onto that, making a half-hearted accusation of the two of them fooling around behind his back. 

Wilson was accustomed to such comments from House, and he didn't react with any malice. House was almost disappointed. A fight would have given his mind something to work through. "Getting a little stir crazy in here? Any other _Rear Window_ conspiracy theories you’d like to share?"

He decided to try for the fight anyway. "Yeah, because sleeping around is beneath you. And Stacy's so madly in love with me these days that she'd never think of it."

Wilson stood abruptly and grabbed his arm, yanking him into a sitting position. House yelled out at the pain the jostling caused his leg. "What the fuck!"

Wilson didn't seem remotely sorry at the pain he was causing. In fact, he slipped himself under House's arm and practically pulled him out of bed. "Come on. You need to stop feeling sorry for yourself. You're driving everyone insane." 

"Oh, okay," House replied sarcastically. "What would you like to do? Maybe some rock climbing? Triathlon? Hell, how about a leisurely stroll in the park?"

Wilson was walking him out of the bedroom, now, pulling House along like dead weight. "No, you need something to keep your mind occupied before it eats itself alive," Wilson said, and dumped him unceremoniously at the piano. 

"Any requests?" House sneered. 

"I don't care what you play, just try taking your frustrations out on an inanimate object for once instead of the people who care about you." 

House beat out one repetitive note in time with the throbbing of his leg. Wilson stood awkwardly in the middle of the room, like he didn't know what to do with himself once he'd forced House to do what he wanted. 

Eventually, Wilson retreated to the kitchen and House progressed to angry, inharmonious chords. He closed his eyes and tried not to think about the pain. House wasn't sure how long he'd been playing before he realized his fingers had picked their way into a Chopin waltz. As soon as it registered that he was playing something relatively upbeat, he stopped. It felt good. He wasn't sure if he was ready to feel good. 

He could hear water running in the kitchen and the clinking of glasses. "What are you doing?"

"Dishes," Wilson called back. 

That much was obvious. "But why?"

Wilson appeared in the doorway, wiping his hands dry with a dishcloth. "You're not going to keep playing?"

"Why are you doing my dishes?"

"I, um, thought it would be less awkward for both of us if I was at least ostensibly focused on something else instead of just sitting here listening to you play."

House regarded him analytically: his hands were wringing the cloth and there was a faint blush in his cheeks. "You have a fetish for my piano playing? That's a little gay."

Wilson's hand stole up to rub at the nape of his neck and he turned his gaze away from House. "I just want you to be happy," he said in much the same weary, quiet voice Stacy had taken to using when they weren't screaming at each other. 

House made a decision. "Sit." 

"What?"

He rolled his eyes; if Wilson was going to make him spell it out, the deal was off. "Sit, you idiot." 

House started up again as Wilson headed for the couch. He improvised an intricate melody, pouring out emotion through his hands that he'd never express through words. For the first time in weeks he wasn't consumed with thoughts of what he'd lost and how much he resented Stacy. The feeling might not last long, but he'd take it for now. 

\-- end --


End file.
